I taught at San Lorenzo Middle School in King City, California for thirty-six years before retiring in June of 2006. Phyllis, my wife of 42 years, and I still reside in King City. I am a life-long rock-climber and mountaineer. I've made numerous ascents in the Sierra Nevada and Yosemite, though my home crags are in Pinnacles National Park. Many of my climbing stories have been published over the years. One, Three's a Crowd, was produced as a radio play and broadcast on KUSF in 2006 and later made it onto PBS. I'm an experienced Fantasy and SF writer. My novella Vienna Station won the Galaxy prize and was published as an e-book. It is available for Kindle on Amazon. I co-wrote The Man Who Murdered Mozart with Barry Malzberg a few years back. My fantasy novel Chaos Gate was published in 2011. You may have run across my Joel in Tananar, too. Most recently, Moonlight Mesa Associates published my Young Adult historical novel Dawn Drums. Please visit my website at: http://chaosgatebook.wordpress.com/

Borodin -inspired by the composer's On the Steppes of Central Asia

Will never again raise his baton,But the orchestra playsTashkent, Bukhara, Samarkand.Wind is a threadHanging From distant mountains.

Steppe grasses hissAnd sand,More sand, blows.

A pony waits,Feet together,Head down.Dusk driftsLike a violet scarfAcross day's face,Hush, hush, Quiet,Still.Here at time's end there isSaltBut no tears. -published in 2013 by Fictionique

Louis Armstrong - 1901-1971

Author's Note: I became an admirer of Louis Armstrong when I was a child. I was confirmed in my admiration of him in adulthood, especially after Ken Burns and Winton Marsalis explicated his immense importance to American music. -RW

A Conversation With Louis

Warm honey and lemon juice,Just a teaspoonful,Burst golden from your hornThrough the raspy 78'sRaspy years.

Can your smile heal Katrina, Louis,That brown water NibblingA dead woman's toesAfter Brownie did a heck of a job?

Your smile is gone,

Always honey.

First Light

Is fathers’ timeIn Upper Pines Campground.Rubbing wire-brush chins,Shivering in sweatshirts spottedWith last night’s spaghetti, Blinking like sleepy owls,Not quite tip-toeing,We nod mutelyAs we meet by the bathroom.A silent greeting In our silent conspiracy of fathers –For all the kidsStill sleep.The days work –Tent erecting, Stove clanking, Bicycle chaining, Fish hooking -Must begin, butThere’s time for one cup of coffee,No sugar,Drunk as sunlight folds Down the valley rim,Opens the birthday gift ofAnother Yosemite day for all those kids –After the coffee.